


The Servant Songs

by drinkbloodlikewine, kyrilu



Series: Here I Am [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Biblical References, Epistolary, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-24
Updated: 2014-04-24
Packaged: 2018-01-20 15:43:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1516007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinkbloodlikewine/pseuds/drinkbloodlikewine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyrilu/pseuds/kyrilu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Serial killers writing love letters. It sounds like the punchline to a joke, doesn't it?</i> </p><p>Will's deal with Freddie Lounds takes another direction. 2x05 AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Servant Songs

**Author's Note:**

> drinkbloodlikewine wrote for Will and kyrilu for Matthew.
> 
> We hope you guys enjoy!

_I call from the east a bird of prey, from a distant land, one to carry out my plan. Yes, I have spoken, I will accomplish it; I have planned it, and I will do it._

**Isaiah 46:11**  

* * *

_A manila envelope addressed to Will Graham, care of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, is slipped through the slot of a prison cell. The manila folder bears the TattleCrime.com logo on the outside; there are two letters inside._

_The first letter is typed in neat Georgia 12 pt font, double-spaced. It is not signed, as if the writer does not dare to deign to put her name on it._

I’ve received this envelope in the morning, and in accordance with our agreement made during my previous interview, have had it sent to you. Whether it’s authentic or a hoax is uncertain.

I offer no reassurance that I haven’t read it myself, but I will say that I’ve found a way to get this past your hospital screening measures so that the contents are kept private. This story will break when the time is right.

I will visit at the end of the week for our next interview.

* * *

  _The second letter is handwritten on cream white stationary, black pen and blunt, simple script. The border is in a pattern like waves._

Dear Mr. Graham,

Or can I call you Will? I would like to. I am the 'admirer' that you addressed in your interview with TattleCrime, the copycat of the copycat and your bloody Valentine. (Although the Valentine in question was an ear and not a heart, but, Will, you do know that you metaphorically have my heart, too.) 

I'd like to open a correspondence with you not only because I'm an avid fan, but also because I think we can reach a mutual understanding with each other. I want to be like you. Your partner and co-conspirator, instead of just a distant Valentine. 

Will, you're a fascinating case. You were with the FBI; you masterfully mimicked other serial killers' M.O.s; and you would have gotten away with it, too, if it wasn't for your encephalitis. It wasn't even a mistake of yours, like the others: not a pair of glasses left at the scene of the crime or a taunt gone wrong or a slip of the tongue.

You don't deserve to be locked up or to potentially go on death row. I wanted my alibi for you to hold up, but it didn't. Someone got the judge before I could - another fan? - which is a shame, but a blessing, nevertheless. I hope that everything will work out for you eventually. 

There's so many people like us behind bars for life or waiting to be injected with poison into their veins. They shouldn't do that. Take the apex predators out of an ecosystem and it will collapse. The world needs its monsters under the bed. The world needs its hawks and wolves. It will always have its hawks and wolves, no matter how much they try to drive us to extinction.

What are your thoughts about our discipline, Will, our shared field of study? I've independently pursued my own interests, but I know that you taught classes on crime. You must have all the names of our patron saints stored in that mind of yours: old Jack the Ripper, de Rais, Locusta, Bathory, and so on and so forth, wreathed in monikers like 'vampire' and 'werewolf,' because, like I said: the world's necessary monsters. 

I'm eagerly awaiting your reply.

Sincerely, 

Your secret admirer.

N.B. Just say the word, and I'll be your gun, your knife, and your fire, Will. 

* * *

_Freddie receives a manilla envelope, in the same method as she devised. Inside the envelope is another sealed letter, to be delivered to the PO Box designated for his admirer, as well as a note which reads:_

Ms. Lounds - 

Your discretion is appreciated (for the time being) with respect to this particular matter, although as agreed, any other area of my life is open for discussion. I don’t think anyone would be surprised that you, in particular, have devised a solution for our privacy issues. You’re clearly at the top of your game in negotiating the finer points of information systems by whatever means necessary.

With appreciation for your ongoing assistance in this mutually beneficial endeavor,

W.G.

* * *

_On wide-ruled paper, written in a dull pencil, all standard prison-issue. His handwriting is loose and looping, at times difficult to read._

To my bloody Valentine,

I’m pleased you received my message. It seemed a fair bet that someone as well-researched as yourself would seek out the latest news with respect to this profession and I’m glad that we’ve already found ourselves on the same page. So to speak.

Your previous poem was also received in kind. With the exception of a few minor errors, it was a striking tribute, although the most prominent stanza differed significantly from the source material, and so was less effective than intended. I suspected that the courtroom scene wasn’t your doing, to be honest. It was rather heavy-handed in its symbolism, lacking the careful thought that yours entailed.

Was this your first completed work? He must have been very surprised to see you there. 

I’ve spent my whole life burning through the minds of others in our field (until my own mind caught fire). What interests you about them? Is there one in particular that fascinates you? I’m sure I could provide insight about any of the greater or lesser known names, if you’d like.

I should confess that your admiration is not the first I’ve attracted. As you must know (if your gift is anything to go by) it seems that I’ve become something of a muse for others who also share these pursuits. Considering the amount of attention I’m receiving, I’m curious about your other works - those finished pieces or attempts that are less tribute but rather drawn from your own mind and experiences. I want to know what stokes the fires of your inspirations, your aspirations. What makes you different from the others?

Lastly, if it’s not out of line, a personal request- what is it like where you are? You needn’t provide location details, but I may never set foot outside the windowless stone walls where I find myself. Any impressions of the outside world that you would care to share would be sincerely appreciated.

Until we speak again.

From Hell,

W. 

* * *

Dear Will, 

There’s so many things that we can do now that we’ve found each other, despite your unfortunate circumstances. You have no idea how much your letter has brightened my day. Where I am at the moment is a dreary, boring place, much like the rest of the world, honestly. It's a place where I wait, like how you're waiting.

There's someone here that I watch for to smile. He doesn't smile - only shows flashes of a bitter, bitter expression - but one day I hope that he will. Will, you're not in Hell. You're not alone. Just like how I watch that person, you have my letters. 

(Serial killers writing love letters. It sounds like the punchline to a joke, doesn't it?) 

The bailiff was not my first. I apologize that he was identified as the forgery he was. It was careless of me that I left that signature flourish, the bullet, in him, but it's my preferred paintbrush. He wasn't surprised to see me because I had already shot him before the betrayal could register. It was a clean kill.

My first kill was messy, with fire. I was young, and I guess I've always been drawn to flames. I don't want to bore you with the clumsy details - clumsy, even though I practiced on the neighborhood cats and was a rather enthusiastic altar boy when it came to candles - but it was the first beautiful thing I had ever seen. There was a man in the house who suffocated in his sleep, while your Georgia Madchen burned in a glass cage. It's not as striking, but I imagine that the feeling is the same. 

As for other artists that I would like your insight on...tell me about your first. Quid pro quo. Unless the news is mistaken, it was Garrett Jacob Hobbs. Not your innocents, your victims, but this fellow predator that you faithfully copied in the forms of Cassie Boyle, Marissa Schurr, and Abigail Hobbs. How did you profile him? How did you submerge into his mind and reproduce his dead girls, and fulfill his fantasy when it came to darling Abigail? Do you think he would be envious or proud?

I had hope that I would be your only, but I suppose that admiration from others was inevitable. I am special because I am not your heavy-handed idiot of an admirer, that Cain who did not think to give you a sheep. I am special because of my offering of both blood and fire. My goal is to establish my name among our patron saint, and to not get caught. While I have experimented, I have not executed a coherent, perfected M.O., but I think I have my inspiration now, partly thanks to you. Keep an eye on the news, Will. I am but a lowly dreamer, but I will become; I will engulf; I will transform into more than what I am in the act of subsumation, just like how you merge with the others. 

Let me tell you a little thing about where I am, to end my letter. There is a door where I work: heavy, iron, reinforced. I think of it as a barrier in between angels and madmen and fools. I didn't recognize it at first, but I do now, and the way we will finally meet, you'll hear a semblance of that sound. It's the sound of fate, Will, when the bolt slides home.

Yours,

M.

N.B. This next one is my repentance, too. A homage isn't a homage if it isn't done properly. I'll get this one right, Will. 

* * *

_The glowing screen of a tablet is opened to TattleCrime.Com. The headline reads: VIGILANTE KILLING OF AN ESCAPED CONVICT?_

_Reflected on the tablet's surface is the face of Matthew Brown. It seems as if he's smiling._  

 **BALTIMORE, MARYLAND.** The body of Theodore Konrad, an escaped convict of Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, was discovered today at Baltimore Park.

Konrad was sentenced to be committed in 2010, after being deemed insane at his trial for the murders of three teenagers. He escaped the next year and managed to evade authorities, much to the distress of the general public and the victims' families, and it has been brought to light that he had been living in Baltimore for the last three years under an assumed name.

However, he has now been found. TattleCrime was on scene this morning and observed that Konrad died of fatal stab wounds on his stomach - the same as his victims.

"This 'poetic justice' type of killing is likely the work of a vigilante or the work of someone from the victims' friends or family," an expert tells TattleCrime. "Someone recognized Konrad and planned out his death, so that it would echo his victims."

Investigators were seen searching Konrad's residence, as well as questioning possible suspects. Whether Konrad had committed any more murders after escaping is yet to be determined.

A source close to the Creigh family, relatives of the late Annie Creigh, has confided to TattleCrime: "They're relieved that Annie's killer is gone, so he won't hurt other girls any more. They've gone through a lot, and it really scared and horrified when they heard that Konrad had escaped." 

Dr. Frederick Chilton, the chief of staff at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, when approached for a quote on the hospital's security measures, declined to comment. Just recently, Abel Gideon, a convicted murderer and a Chesapeake Ripper suspect, briefly escaped from BSHCI and went on a spree for his former psychiatrists - a spree that nearly involved not only Dr. Chilton but one of TattleCrime's prominent reporters, Fredericka Lounds...

* * *

_Another note to Freddie is enclosed, a half-sheet of paper torn as evenly as could be managed._

Ms. Lounds -

Since my computer access has never actually been granted, would it be possible for you to send me a copy of any news you write or encounter about local (Baltimore-specific) homicides? Gun violence, stabbings, anything - I can sift through them for what I need. In exchange, I’ll answer your questions about my father on your next visit. I know you want those stories just as much as I don’t want to tell them.

Thanks for your help,

Will

* * *

_He reads as much of the screen as he can over the shoulder of the orderly. In their shared reflection, a flicker of a smile that shifts quickly back to a pensive frown as he withdraws back into his cell. Later in the day, he requests a Bible be sent to his cell - they can’t deny him that._

_More than two weeks pass before his response arrives in the designated PO box._

To my dreamer,

“…but his word was in mine heart as a burning fire shut up in my bones…”

Your praise is overwhelming, admirer. You call your writing love letters, but do you know me as I am, or merely the work you so admire? Am I your muse or your idol, or somewhere in between?

I see that one less predator hunts our shared territory. I imagine someone of his strength and awareness made it tricky, so you must carry your own strength to be able to surprise and overpower like that. Or perhaps you’re simply more clever.

Was the park beautiful at that time of day? Did the wind rustle the leaves when it all fell quiet? You don’t know how lucky you are to be out there. You write about walls as though you were confined within them, but you’re not, at least not now. With the world available to you in your freedom, for whom or what do you wait?

I’m certain now we’ve met before, although how many times or when is still unclear. Though I’m sorely tempted to ask you to show yourself to me, from the outside your iron door your vantage point is surely much greater than my own.

(This begs the question, though: if you’re unable to pass through it, and you’re certainly not a fool, does this make you a madman or an angel? Choices, choices…)

But I’m sure from where you are, you know even better than I do how unsafe it would be. There are so many eyes here, and your rival is equally close at hand. You should know that he’s as aware of you as you are of him, although your identity remains a mystery - a good thing considering how deeply he would relish the chance to prove himself on you.

(It’s a dangerous game we’re all playing, isn’t it?)

I wish I could show you how it feels to be swallowed whole into the thoughts of another, seeing through their eyes and hearing their voice in your mind, their actions becoming yours in every way. I would love for you to feel it.

It’s like slipping into a current under a sheet of ice, unsure if you’ll find your way out again before you’re swept away into the darkness. It’s not something I control, something I can teach or even describe in words. It happens to me and I respond. Some would call it thrilling. I’m sure you would agree.

Hobbs was the first. He was found through an uncanny luck that in retrospect seems far from it. His mind was a place of conflict and sadness, mourning the same loss that he wanted so badly to inflict himself. By contrast, hers were acts of self-preservation, seeking out what might sate his hunger for another day.

Beauty and the beast.

Here, his writing grows harder to read, scratched a little darker against the page.

He would have felt deeply envious of another claiming her from him. She was his by rights, reworked in his image, down to the final moments when he held a knife to her throat and her blood poured black against the kitchen tiles and she fell.

I still smell the gunpowder. I remember how he looked at me, the rage and grief and jealousy. I still hear her choking on the darkness that followed her everywhere before and then and after.

It’s my darkness too.

Can I tell you something I’ve never told anyone?

Sometimes I wonder if I should have just let her go with him.

It might have been better for all of us

W.

PS: leave the cats alone, they don’t deserve it

* * *

_The reply that comes back is fast, written in a rough hurried hand. There is a dried drop of water on the top of the page, like a strange letterhead, and it smells faintly like chlorine._

Dear Will,

It's okay. Will, everything will be fine. You were unsettled by my previous letter, weren't you? I have this image of you shaking. Staring quietly into space as you thought of me. I apologize if I caused you any offense. You know me - my first poem, riddled with missteps and typos - I can't get it right. Perhaps I'm not as different as my rival as I thought. 

"And I was weary with forbearing and I could not stay." I didn't mean to cause you any pain.

Are you afraid? You asked me how I see you and the answer is that you're my priest at the confessional. You can hear my thoughts and understand. I can offer you prayers, but I suppose that you can cringe at sin. Is it the old habits the FBI instilled in you? Was it the memory of Abigail Hobbs? It's fine to believe in justice and to love her (I suppose you couldn't help yourself, taking on her father's role and rescuing her), but Will, these things end. Everything ends. All you have left is the darkness, and others with darkness. Not necessarily me, but perhaps my rival, perhaps other minds that you prod at. 

I'm sorry if you don't understand that yet, but it's no fault of yours, and it does not lower your standing in my eyes. Truthfully, I want us to be friends. You are an angel and I am still a fool, but one day we can be equals. I'm waiting for you, and I'm grateful that you're sharing these thoughts with me.

One day you will look back on Abigail Hobbs and you will find everything about her demise beautiful. The pain will pass. I will always be here for you.

Let me tell you about Theodore Konrad. The park was like a Garden of Eden. I left him lying beneath the trees, spread-eagled, his blood making the grass red. And the wind blew as you said it did, letting me see his glassy eyes as it parted his hair, and there was no other thought in my mind besides: "I wish you were here."

I don't usually like eyes or eye contact. But when they're dead or nearly so, it doesn't particularly matter.

I can feel him in me: his darkness and his hunger. Even if I could never reach the level of understanding, of intensity, that you possess, it's close. It's wonderful, the way you describe it, and it helped. Thank you.

Konrad used to occupy the cell next to mine, when he was in. We never talked, but he used to mumble Bible quotations in his sleep. He remembered most of them fairly well. Sometimes I think I can still hear him singing The Lord's Prayer, the sounds bouncing off the walls, reverberating down and down the hall.

The next one is a lifeguard who purposefully let two swimmers drown. The bailiff told me about this one - she was let off due to a lack of evidence. They will find her in her own swimming pool, chlorine and tears caught in her throat. (I'm a very good swimmer myself.) It's things like these that make me understand God's flooding of the earth - we are on an ark, Will, isolated from everything else, and there's so much power in our existence.

In regard to an eventual meeting...you will see me eventually. In my ramblings about fate and a door, there is a promise there. I will keep to it, but it will be awhile until the time comes.

I was only a stupid kid when it came to the cats. I don't do it any more. They were just urges I explored and took out on the wrong prey.

Look, Will. It's okay. 

Yours,

M.

N.B. It's the most dangerous game in the world. But the word 'thrilling' is a fitting word for it. My rival won't catch me. The only one who can catch me is you, and I think you want to see me fly.

* * *

_The letter is written in ink from a cheap pen given for good behavior, after several days of invasive therapy that leave him shaken and silent. He writes slowly to steady the trembling of his hands, and sometimes has to stop after a few sentences to lay down or be sick as the therapeutic drugs ravage his system._

To my penitent,

Yes, I am afraid.

I feel your enthusiasm growing in everything you write and do, but you have to be more patient. If they’re not watching now, they will be soon, so assume that they are already. This is the moment when most mistakes are made. Unless you want to join me in here (although sometimes I feel as if, in some ways, you already have) you must move more slowly. Don’t disregard caution in exchange for the excitement of the hunt.

An avenging angel, they’ll call you. The families of your victims’ victims will lay praise at your feet, and even the police will be less likely to respond.

You are a clever one, admirer.

I fear the potential of what we could accomplish together, as others should. I see us standing together before the image of an angry and ravenous god and ripping him from his protective moorings. We’re not the angels cast down - we are the ones casting down those who do not fulfill our design.

The power of this prospect is profound and frightening and I worry. I worry because my right hand acts without me, and I have to trust it to act as I would even though I barely know it.

Let me try to know it.

You’ve been in this city your whole life. You know the ins and outs, its pathways and secret places, as though the streets were your home more than the building you lived in. Alone, mostly, perhaps with the occasional parent or parole officer overshadowing you. Your devotion is genuine, though, and you find beauty in the church and its teachings and its vengeance. At the same time, you reject their notion of subservience. Why bow when you could become amongst the holy highest instead?

You spend your days in tedium, your mind aflame with thoughts and ideas that no one around you suspects. You play the game well. So well that those around you may even consider you less than intelligent, but you don’t mind. This simple, boring work and their simple, boring attitudes give you an unaccounted for freedom for your other pursuits.

Everything ends, you say, in darkness, but you didn’t always believe that. Something happened to you, someone perhaps. No one is born into the pitch but you have embraced it. This is where I lose the trail so tell me - what drove the light out of you? What left you so full of darkness that you light fires in the night to chase it away?

The FBI was a darkness for me. My mind is like a mirror - it reflects what it’s shown, a flame or a shadow, and there were only shadows there. You’re comfortable in your darkness and while I understand it, I don’t embrace it as you do. I might never fully embrace it. It forces me to look and to see things that hurt me and I need the light, watcher, I need the light to balance it out. To ask for only light is unreasonable but to never see it will break me.

“The wolf also shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the kid.”

Maybe this is weakness, or humanity. I don’t know anymore. They may not be so different to you but if you want to know me - truly - then you have to know this part of me, too, however you think of it. You keep calling me perfect but that’s not fair to either of us. I’m as far from perfect as they come.

It surprises me, still - your devotion. It’s a strange comfort I take in reading that it’s me you’re waiting for, and that you’ll always be here for me. I don’t know if I believe it, though. I’ve heard it so many times before and each time I get in the way of it. I’m never who they want me to be, not entirely, and so they choose pieces to imagine as the whole and are disappointed when a single tree isn’t the forest.

Your rival is this way. I know him and I know that he wants me to be something I’m not. The FBI was the same. The precinct was the same. The people I thought I loved - all the same.

I am afraid, admirer. I don’t know what will happen when someone actually understands.

I want you to understand.

Quid pro quo.

Yours,

W. 

* * *

_There is a smudge of blood as this one's letterhead._

Dear Will, 

What happened to me?

They cast me into a pit of darkness, yet I arose and arose, and the darkness still hasn't left me. Will you rise, too, Will? I believe you will. I know you will.

You can keep your light for the moment - Mr. Graham and his single candlelight - so that I can see you in your pit, eyes closed, breathing slowly, your body curled within itself. You are trembling in your sleep, and I want to touch you gently, to wake you up from your nightmares. You're calling out their names - I think you whisper, "Abigail", just as I would like to whisper to you, "Forgive me."

Dear Will, I am sorry for being presumptuous. You are already perfect - I will still hold onto that word and that belief, because there's no one out there like you. You are yourself, and if your rival takes my previous stance, he is wrong. I do not want to change you: I want to watch you as you are during the present; I want to watch you spread your wings. You have much to dwell over in your cage, and whether you like it or not, you will reach a conclusion.

I'm trying to see you, just as you're trying to see me. None of this is meant to make you afraid, but if the fear is important, let it, at the very least, drive you. You need whatever you can. I can promise that I never mean you any harm or anguish; my devotion will never waver. I can promise that we both are missing that essential something - regardless of dark or light - and that all I want us to be is each other's missing piece. You know me, Will. Everything you described was me, and there's nothing more than I want to understand you. The world is boring, and I need to burn, to crown myself with my own halo, hammered into shape from bones and viscera. But I can't do it alone.

'Avenging angel.' Yes. I like the sound of that. The lifeguard is inside me, screaming over the roar of crashing waves. I'm careful, always careful, don't worry, and the next one was a poisoner, an angel of mercy. Angel against angel - or, as you said, something altogether greater and different. They will say I'm escalating and maybe I am. Isn't three the magic number when it comes to being deemed a serial killer? The ex-con could have simply been done in by a vigilante; the lifeguard could have been an accident; but this alerts them to the game.

I already have the next one in mind. I need this. You need your light (and no, it is not weakness, but only another testament of your strength), and I need to touch my darkness against theirs.

Tell me - did you really kill those people? 

Yours,

M.

N.B. I've figured out how I can remember each occasion - my trophies. I would have watermarked this letter with coffee laced with cyanide, but it might be dangerous if you inhaled.

N.B.2. In one of your past letters, you mentioned missing the outside world. What do you miss, specifically? Besides the obvious (fresh air, light, decent food).

* * *

Will is escorted in chains to the Privacy Room. He doesn’t speak as he’s bound to the table, and no expression beyond distant familiarity passes over him as Jack is seated across from him. The door closes and they speak - although from Will there is very little - until Jack produces a file older. He looks to the orderly, brows raised, and with his clearance lays images across the table in front of Will.

Will steels himself to look but in seeing the photographs - the park, the pool, the apartment - something softens in his jaw, the corners of his eyes, just for a moment. He leans over them, fingers brushing the pictures as though he’s seen them before, and he picks each up in turn.

He makes himself ask questions, furrows his brow, shakes his head, goes through all the motions. Finally he closes his eyes. Jack waits and minutes pass. Will shivers, once, some intense ghost of sensation moving through him, lips parted a little, cheeks flushed. They speak again, and as they do, Will smiles, crooked, and Jack frowns in response to whatever has amused Will in that moment. He gathers the photographs, shaking his head.

“You’re under a lot of stress, Will,” Jack says as he opens the door, not unsympathetic. “Let me know if anything comes to you, once you’ve had more time to think it over.”

* * *

Matthew watches the shuffle of photographs as Will's fingers play against them. It's for me, it's for me, he thinks, and he sees Will smile.

There it is.

He's been waiting for it.

He hopes that Will will answer his question about things that he misses. He wants to be able to give Will something, anything, that would make his existence in this pit a little more bearable. Maybe he'll smile again.

In the meantime, there's the next victim to consider...

* * *

 

To my ascendant,

You already know the answer to your question or you wouldn’t ask it.

Which means that you’re looking to me to be honest.

I’ll lose you for this but you’ve called my bluff, so I owe it to you. Or myself.

No.

They aren’t mine.

I killed Hobbs but not the others. Still, I felt the power and the victory and all the ugliness as my shots punched holes in him and now that I see how broken the system is - the system I spent so long breaking myself trying to serve - I don’t regret it. I did once, but I don’t anymore. I would do it again and again if I had to. When the protectors stop protecting, what other choice is there?

On my best day, every thought is full of horrors and I look back at all the things I’ve seen and it’s all in me, so who can say anymore to whom it actually belongs. Every day I find new nightmares, new memories of places I may have been or never have been and things I shouldn’t know but do and things that were done because of me that I could never have imagined and blood and pain and fear all carved by my hands that aren’t ever really my own.

If our reality is defined by our perceptions, I might as well be the one who did it. It was my hands I felt choke Marissa Shure and it was my arms that impaled Cassie Boyle on the stag and it was my mouth that swallowed Abigail’s ear, wasn’t it? It’s all mine. Everything is inside me and I can’t ever scrape it out, although the doctors here are certainly doing their best to dig up all the rot and expose it to the air.

I know this isn’t what you wanted to hear.

I know this isn’t how you wanted to see me.

My life has been a persistent disappointment to others so why stop now? It’s almost funny if you look at it from a certain angle. I can’t even be convicted the right way. Sentenced to death for not doing wrong. I can’t even correspond with you for more than a few letters before it becomes a confessional of failures.

If my suspicions of your suspicions are correct, you’re already gone. This letter will sit unread in a PO box until it’s tossed out. Maybe all this will all be over by then and it won’t have mattered anyway. Maybe the postal worker who finds it will sell it as the last confession of a dead FBI agent-turned-murderer and retire early.

If by some chance you do read this, I don’t expect to hear from you again, but I will tell you that they know. Or at least, they’re starting to know. They came to see me to ask for my help in finding you. I only told them what was already obvious but I finally got to see the tributes you created. I got to move inside you, take you deep inside me, feel the way you turned like a dancer avoiding Konrad’s switchblade just narrowly across your belly before closing on him. He was fast, but you were faster. The other two never knew you were there but I shared your quiet steps and perfect pauses and the way you held your breath as the executioner thought he heard a noise and turned before collapsing as thorns pierced his veins from the inside out.

I felt you. Your retribution was shared in my hands and I thought I would hate it, loathe ending those lives in the same way I loathed feeling it from all the others, but I didn’t.

It felt like shooting Hobbs.

Just. Righteous.

I hope you check your mail one last time and know that I felt you move in me.

You asked me what I miss. I suppose I can say these sorts of things now that you’re gone.

Besides the sun and the wind, going for a run, eating food that isn’t out of a can with an infinite shelf life, I miss contact the most. With anyone, really. The only kind here is functional, utilitarian, usually ending with a needle in my arm and straps around my limbs. I miss petting my dogs. I have seven of them - probably too many but they’re all I have most of the time, and usually it’s enough. They take me at face value. Happy to be around me without needing me to be anything more or less than I am, all so funny and bright and sweet.

I miss sleeping in a real bed with a blanket and a pillow. I had them here once but they were taken away when someone decided I might be a suicide risk.

And coffee. I really, really miss coffee.

Good luck out there, admirer. I won’t tell them anything they don’t already know.

Someone has to do their job for them.

Yours,

Will

* * *

_There are three crescents of red at the top of the page._

_The letter is written in an unsteady hand._

Dear Will,

No. No, for once, you're wrong. Don't write that, Mr. Graham, I promised you. I'm not going to leave you. You won't lose me. I'm not going to stop: justice, like you said, it's not going to end.

You haven't let me down. I don't fucking care how many people you've killed or not. It's the empathy that matters. Stop it. Please smile for me, don't look like that. please.

Listen - I felt you in me, too. I don't think the moment registered with you, but when you peered behind the curtain, you looked up. For one brief second, suspended in time, your eyes and mine. You saw me, and Mr. Graham, it was like you looked into me and melded into me, sliding into the right places and making us complete. You're everything that I've always needed. You will not die; you will be free. Just wait. Wait.

You only have to ask. It's always that. Will, I would touch the inside of your palms when I slip your handcuffs on, as if I was laying alms there. I would grasp your wrists and keep you still whenever you're afraid, captivated, horrified by the darkness. I would hold you and whisper your name over and over again, because even if you feel like you're lost in anyone's else mind, you are yourself and you are perfect. There is always a place for me with you even if it's stifled, meeting halfway through letters and through prison bars.

I never meant for them to find the pillow and the blankets. I tried to give them back, but Chilton caught me.

You'll find coffee on your tray tomorrow morning.

Please write back.

Yours,

Matthew

N.B. I did three more in quick succession and Will I'm shaking (A child killer. Then lonely hearts partner killers; they died in each other's arms. I would write psalms in your name with their twisted love

* * *

Matthew Brown is not wearing his usual orderly coat when he visits Will Graham's house. He's wearing jeans, a t-shirt, a jacket, and the wind blows across his face, makes him blink. 

He's just killed his lonely hearts killers. The gun is in his right pocket. Will's letter is in his left. Matthew takes refuge in the shadow of the front porch, shading his eyes from the sun.

He sees a dark haired woman run across the field, dogs trailing behind her. She's playing with them. Sometimes they stop, settle on the grass, and she is sober, silent.

There's a dog on the porch. He (or she?) doesn't bark at Matthew. Only sniffs at him, pokes a nose on Matthew's pant leg.

Matthew sinks down to sit beside the lone dog. He can still feel the wind on his face.

He pretends that Will's next to him. Smiling. Saying his name.

* * *

The coffee arrives before the letter - the mail takes time, after all - but this doesn’t change the quiet surprise that falls like first snow over Will’s face as he sees the steaming mug on his tray. Their gaze meets briefly when he looks up wide-eyed from beneath his shaggy hair, and he murmurs something like thanks before carrying the tray back to his bed. He cradles the mug in both hands as though it were finest porcelain, and when he takes a sip...

He laughs.

Just once, a huff of breath past a broad smile but a flicker of candlelight in a dark place. His shoulders settle, his body eases as he sips it again, slowly, to savor everything it means.

He doesn’t even wait for the orderly to leave before tearing into the letter at mail call, dropping cross-legged on his bed, back against the cold stone wall.

He traces the red marks at the top of the page, brows furrowing before he continues. And as he reads his breath hitches, stops in his throat, and he holds it for nearly the length of the letter.

He doesn’t look at him, not directly, not yet, but as he finishes the letter he tilts his head just so, just enough to see the shape of white scrubs and dark hair from the corner of his eyes. And when he smiles so quietly that it would be missed by anyone else, Matthew knows it’s meant only for him.

* * *

_Written quickly, script coiling and twisting across the page in a flurry._

To my Matthew,

I don’t know if I’ve ever been so wrong about so many things. I’ve definitely never been so glad to be so wrong about so many things. 

I knew you were close to me - you had to be, to know what you know and to do the things you’ve done. The bailiff knew you, and you knew more about me than I realize even now, so I thought you for a courtroom worker, a hospital attendant perhaps, one of the visitors in the trial.

But I didn’t expect you to be this close. Hiding in plain sight.

You are a clever one.

You’ve already been with me for so long that I feel guilty having ever questioned your devotion. I’ve heard you say my name so many times. I know your touch, gentle, not rough like the others. And when the seizures and the treatments pull me under it’s been you all along who helps me surface again. Your voice that’s called me back instead of letting me slip away as your rival might have.

Mister Graham, you call me, to remind me who I am when I get lost.

“You are my salvation, my stronghold; I shall not be shaken.”

If only I’d known. I don’t know what could have been done before this but I wish I’d had the knowledge of your nearness. Your devotion. I believe it now.

I know I’ll share in the memories of your most recent culling soon. This is an escalation. They’ll want me to help.

I won’t tell them anything new but I already see you shaking, fingers still black with grease and gunpowder. Was it from joy, exhilaration, or fear? Talk to me, please. Don’t carry this burden on your own. Let me burn away some of the darkness that surrounds you. Bear the candle that leads us both back out of the dark when it threatens to consume us.

Will you let me? Would you lead me fearless into the dark and follow the light back out with me when it’s all too much?

You’re so close. I can feel you when you pass by me but I can’t reach out for you, I can’t bring my eyes to meet yours in case someone is watching.

(Something else we share - I hate eye contact too. It’s all too much information - but you... I want to know you but I have to share you with his cameras and I can’t, not yet.)

It’s a bleak sort of irony. The funniest kind if everything else is dark enough. Invisible barriers between us. I feel so useless here.

I’ve never looked so forward to being taken to therapy. Your touch has always been so kind and you called it paying alms but next time you have to put the cuffs on me, you’ll feel me touching back.

(for palm to palm is holy palmer’s kiss)

I don’t know what happens now. I don’t have answers for this. I don’t see the road clear ahead of me.

Ahead of us.

But I have a light, and you know the darkness.

We’ll find our way.

Yours,

Will

ps: no blankets or coffee are worth risking yourself for me - please be careful

pps: the coffee was the best I’ve ever tasted

* * *

_This letter has not been forwarded to TattleCrime. Instead it has been pressed into the cell slot by Matthew himself._

Dear Will,

"Not by appearance shall he judge, not by hearsay shall he decide. But he shall judge the poor with justice, and decide aright for the land's afflicted. He shall strike the ruthless with the rod of his mouth, and with the breath of his lips he shall slay the wicked."

Here I am. Send me.

Joy, exhilaration, and fear, and love. I felt you move in me when I took those lonely heart killers. They were the first that I actively chased, who were running hot. I found the others through patient records and the bailiff's old stories, but I followed these two in the news. Answered an ad of theirs, and I think they were shocked that the hunters had become the hunted. I shot them over and over again - they must have thought they were another Bonnie and Clyde, them against the world. I think I can still smell her cigarettes on my skin.

I felt you again when I took another life last night, in celebration of your letter. I got to use my gun again - I forgot how much I missed it, because it was just knives and poison and other things for a long while.

The light and darkness coexisting in one place, in the right balance...I didn't realize that was what I was looking for. I felt that completion again, like when our eyes met, and it's no longer a burden. I will follow you and you will follow me, trailing in and out of shadow and candlelight, pressing our hands together like in prayer. I've always longed for you to reciprocate my touch, and now I have your word. Oh Will, there's so much more in the world than holding hands.

This evening, the therapy room mikes will be disabled. There's no security cameras there. When Chilton leaves, we can speak freely.

Who put you in here? Who killed your supposed victims? Just say the word and you will be healed.

I'm glad you liked the coffee. I wanted to smuggle in one of your dogs, but it would be fairly impossible, sorry. Don't worry about me - Will, you smiled. You smiled.

Yours (as you are mine),

Matthew

N.B. I don't know where any of this is leading, either. But you aren't useless. This game revolves around you, after all.

N.B.2. Escalation. I really can't stop. I said it isn't a burden, but it feels a little bit like madness. Do you think they might catch me?

* * *

Matthew tells himself that he isn't afraid. There are so many names, names, names in his mind - "Justice shall be the band around his waist and faithfulness a belt upon his hips" - and he thinks he understands it when Will talked about being overwhelmed. There is so much darkness: the escaped convict and the poisoner and the lifeguard and the child killer and the Bonnie and Clyde and now a fanatic who believed in demons. Demons - Satanic things that scurry and possess, but that isn't real - drive him out, drive them out.

Horrors, Will had called it.

He knows that serial killer studies say that they are trying to fulfill a fantasy. They strike and they cool off and they escalate, a rise and fall of action and inaction. The studies say that killers can't ever fulfill that fantasy - you're left with a dead body. You just have to keep going.

This is what Matthew resolves to do: to keep going.

He disables the mikes and feels the brush of Will's hand and wants to laugh.

"Here I am," he says.

* * *

It’s quiet in the therapy room, once the treatment has stopped. It’s not how Will wanted their first real conversation to be, not how he wants to be seen, laid low and made weak, but he knows that Matthew’s seen the results of these treatments before, often worse.

He wonders what it says about the direction his life has taken that the man before him - the murderer, the fire-starter, the altar boy, whose thoughtful movements betray his strength of body and belief - is the only one in the world who has seen him from so many angles and yet remains.

Hannibal’s voice lingers behind him, like cold fingers grasping the back of Will’s neck and his mouth tastes like blood and he fights down a heave with a sharp intake of breath. He raises his head when he hears Matthew’s voice, extending a hand as he passes, to graze his fingers, grasping.

“Then the devil leaveth him, and, behold, angels came and ministered unto him,” murmurs Will, trying to shake the damp hair out of his face, trying to clear his vision to watch Matthew move past him. Something like a smile appears in the shadows cast over his face and his voice is rough from the drugs and the hours of therapy and his own heart that flutters frantic like a caged bird as their fingers brush together. “Is it safe?” he asks. “How long?”

* * *

"Not very long," Matthew says. "Twenty minutes or so before the guards notice."

He looks at Will thoughtfully. He's pulled away, now, and his eyes seek Will, as if he's searching him for something. It's as if they're trying to get a feel of each other: gauging, memorizing.

Will stands in front of his cage, one foot in, one foot out. Sweat shines on his face, his hair disheveled. He is tired, weariness emitting from him in waves.

Matthew approaches him, his hands in his pockets. They're close. If he leaned forward, their foreheads would touch; if he leaned forward, Matthew would press Will against the cage and maybe they would hurry to twine fingers together, to reassure each other, holding and clinging in a rushed embrace. But Matthew keeps the sparse distance. Listens to Will's breathing.

"Mr. Graham," Matthew says, quietly. "Y'know, with everything that's happened, I've felt like the only thing that matters is you. The only light."

He finds a story to tell.

"There was a serial killer couple who got a couple of kids," he says. "The woman was interesting to the media. Peroxide hair. Grew up decently ‘normal’, at least when it comes to our kind. And she showed no regret. She blamed her partner for his influence and constantly petitioned for her freedom.

"The only time she showed any real, deep emotion in the process was when the police took her dog. They analyzed him for evidence, and he didn't survive the anesthesia. She was furious."

He sees a flicker in Will's eyes. He doesn't know why he's talking about this. (Dogs. He knows that it's one of Will's weaknesses.)

"Who are you to me, Mr. Graham?" he says, and he's surprised by his own self-deprecating laugh. "Are you the last thing that makes me human? Will you get me to stop?"

* * *

He closes the cage behind himself - always polite, a good Southern boy through and through - and leans against it, still a little unsteady. As their eyes meet his fingers wrap back around the iron bars and a dusky rose cascades up through his cheeks and he smiles just a little, just enough, when Matthew says his name.

But Matthew tells his story. And Will listens. And in increments his gaze drops away, removed and distant as though searching a horizon for something he thought he saw but maybe only imagined.

He knows this feeling too well. Tension wraps like the arms of his straightjacket and as Matthew tells him about the murderers and the children and the dog Will feels him pulling the invisible straps a little tighter, waiting for Will to squirm. He imagines he hears the quiet tap of hooves against the tile floor and although the light has gone from his eyes his smile returns with a soft note of amusement.

They really are all the same underneath, aren’t they?

“You have to answer that, not me,” he responds, an autumn chill laying frost over the summer warmth that first appeared. He pushes off the cage and stretches stiffly, making the most of his momentary freedom. “I could tell them about you, if you just want someone to make you stop, but I can’t make you into something you don’t want to be. Shit, Matt,” another semblance of a laugh, if laughter was a tired and joyless thing. “I can’t even get you to talk to me without you trying to dig inside me.”

* * *

Will's usage of Matt is unexpected, soft in its weariness, said with a firm familiarity. No one's ever called him anything other than Matthew, not even his mother, and Matthew feels a rush of dizzy warmth, something nearing stability.

Matthew draws up a wry grin. "And I thought this was the whole point of this exercise. To get inside each other. To understand each other."

He knows that isn't what Will meant. But he wants to know everything. He dismisses the subject of his murders, his madness, and says instead, prying at Will once again, "Who's your devil?"

"Just say the word," he reminds him, dropping his voice into a murmur, and his hand stops to rest against Will's face, tracing his jaw and stubbled cheeks, "and you will be healed."

It's the same as his first letter: I'll be your gun, your knife, and your fire.

And then Matthew pauses. Reconsiders. The hollow sound of Will's laugh is still in his ears.

He withdraws his hand, and asks, "What's the name of your dog that likes staying on the porch? Big, brown dog, with a white tail. A boy, I think."

It's a gentler question.

"Talk to me, Will," he says. "You said you wanted to talk."

* * *

“You went to my house?”

He stops, cocks his head to the side, watching Matthew with furrowed brows across the short expanse between them. Will’s caught off-guard by the clever parry he doesn’t see coming, expression softening. “You - you saw my dogs?”

He turns away again but it’s with the shadow of a smile. “Winston,” he says. “He really likes people.” A breath escapes him as some tangle in his thoughts unfurls. His shoulders loosen. “Were they - are they okay? Alana,” he catches himself, a rueful smile. “Dr. Bloom doesn’t really visit anymore.”

He has to brace himself, steady his reactions as Matthew touches his face unexpectedly. A warm flush of color floods up along his neck and despite himself and the rush of sensation that threatens to overwhelm him, he allows it, eyes closing.

“I’ve already spent all day with my devil - your rival,” he says. “I don’t want him here now. We don’t have that long.” His fingers grasp Matthew’s hand against his scruffy cheek - his touch is rough, weather-worn, and his lips are soft against Matthew’s palm as they move in quiet supplication. “Be gracious to us,” he says softly, “we long for you. Be our strength every morning, our salvation in time of distress.”

“Be patient,” he cautions, breaking from the verse and letting his fingers slide free of Matthew’s hand. “He’s more dangerous than you could imagine.”

* * *

"The dogs looked fine," Matthew says. Holds his breath when Will's mouth forms something like a kiss across the lines of his palm. It's as if Will is paying his respects to him - which is wrong, it should be the other way around - it's as if it's a holy communion. Lord, I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word...

Their time is running out.

"Don't worry about me," Matthew murmurs, because if there's one thing he can do, it's to fight, it's to win. "But I've got to take you back now. Write me, Will. No need to forward it to TattleCrime - just find a way to hand it to me."

He takes out Will's handcuffs; Will looks at him, turns obligingly, and is still as Matthew restrains him.

Matthew thinks: Hannibal Lecter, huh?

* * *

_The letter is pressed to the underside of his tray (the food, as usual, mostly uneaten) as he passes it back to Matthew, written quickly the day after their meeting. Their gaze doesn’t connect but Will grasps a bar before turning back into his cell, a meaningless gesture to anyone but them, a substitute touch that will have to suffice._

Matt,

Do I think they’ll catch you?

Not if I can help it.

I felt your delight at your Bonnie’s surprise, when they showed me the pictures of the pair of them. Where did you wipe off the lipstick? It was smudged against your neck, your cheek maybe, before you pressed the barrel into her stomach. I don’t imagine you wiped it off with your hand, but destroy the shirt you wore, just in case. The shoes, too - don’t buy a pair like that again. There was a lot of blood.

They know I’m not really helping. All these tests, drugs, treatments, all this stress takes its toll, you know. But I give them enough, steering them after mistakes I know you’d never make, to retread the same steps until frustration makes them tired.

I want to help just enough that I can continue to see your work.

There’s still so much to be done. I know the patterns, I know your madness even if I don’t share its design. If you follow me, I can guide you into the dark. I have the light. But you need to do as I say or you’ll stumble like all the others.

And once you’ve descended through all the circles, the devil himself awaits. You know him. You’ve seen him pay me visits. Do you know what he’s done? Not just to me, but to others? If I tell you, can you stay your hand until the time is right?

You want to fly and I can feel you stretching your wings, but leap too soon and you’ll fall. I don’t want to be the one that pushes you.

Yours,

Will

* * *

_This letter is folded in a napkin. When Will thumbs through the layers, the white flaps unfurl like wings._

Dear Will,

Thank you for your counsel and your protection.

I burned my shirt and shoes. The last thing that I set on fire was the bailiff, but this felt good, too. I put them in a barrel and cast aside the refuse. Dear Will, I scattered the ashes and said your name as the smoke dissipated into the sky.

The little sounds stay with me. The lifeguard choked and sputtered when I held her under. Our Clyde hissed son of a bitch when he saw me take out my gun.

Did they say anything about the puncture marks, the places where I took blood and gave to you? If they did, what did you tell them? If only they knew that you had it all with you.

I can wait. I can handle your devil. I'm not afraid, despite your warnings. He hurt you; he is the same species of my prey; and didn't you say you saw me as something greater than an angel? He is marked as Cain was marked.

I know I can't stop, but I can feel patience holding me back like a steady hand. Maybe it's you. I can still recall the rasp of your breath on my palm. Maybe it's me. I felt like I burned off a small piece of my soul when I lit the flames, hellfire within me stoked when the ashes turned from orange to ash gray. Is this what cooling-off is, Will? I never thought it would be so literal.

Yours,

Matthew

N.B. I wish we could find more time together to talk alone again.

* * *

_The letter is between the layers of his jumpsuit, folded neatly rather than passed through in a heap. He waits for a clean uniform to be passed back to him and for the first time in countless occasions where they’ve made this trade, his face grows flush before he turns away to clothe himself again._

To my Matt,

I told them the truth - you’re taking trophies, as serial killers do. Of course, they don’t know that you’re taking them for me.

(It’s almost romantic, if you tilt your head and squint a little.)

I know you feel different right now but you have to give the cycle time. Rest. Recover. You carry a burden on you that risks becoming too great if you push yourself too hard. The ones who get away with it never escalate too quickly - they always pull back to regather themselves so the pressure doesn’t build and overwhelm them.

Investigators use terms for this. You may already know them. They categorize killers as organized and disorganized - it’s the organized ones that are hardest to find. Calm. Distant, even. Thoughtful. Patient. You’ve been organized so far but without sufficient care to pace yourself the former can become the latter. Anger, lust, glee - emotion enters into it and it stops being strategic. Plans are broken. Mistakes are made. Evidence is left.

This is how they find you.

And when it’s time to end him you’ll need every resource you’ve acquired and every skill and every strength you can muster. Be ready. He is strong, he is fast, he is organized to a degree I could never have imagined and he buries his sins in the deepest circles so that no one can find them. Even now, even without the fever clouding my vision and my eyes wide open, they don’t see him for what he is. It’s easier for them to send me here then to see what he’s done.

You are the only one who can fix this and when you tell me that you will I believe you.

I believe in you.

I feel your fire in me, growing like embers. Like faith.

“It is he that doth go before thee; he will be with thee, he will not fail thee, neither forsake thee: fear not, neither be dismayed.”

I don’t know what brings me more comfort - the work you’ve done or the work you will do. The small gifts of coffee and visiting my home or the way your touch felt against my cheek.

It’s the first time someone has touched me with honest warmth since he put me here.

I wish I could feel it again.

When this is over and your great work is complete, reckoner, what happens? What becomes of us? Even with him removed, his crimes are still on my hands. Will we write to each other until they have you take me from here one last time?

Yours,

Will

* * *

Dear Will,

My execution won't be half done. I have a feeling that your devil may be meticulous, but there has to be evidence of his proclivities somewhere. I will kill him, but I will also expose him and free you. When they find his body, there will be the proof of his guilt at his feet. It's the least I can do. I am careful - organized - and in my dreams I am following him, tracing his footsteps, until the moment I take out a gun, or a knife, or reach for his neck with my hands.

What do you think Hannibal Lecter's poetic irony will look like, Will? Describe it to me. I've figured out he's the Chesapeake Ripper; I've kept up with his works. But I would like to know how you think he would end. How you want it to end. I'll remember - I'll take note. And you'll find a daub of blood on a new letter soon enough.

'Beloved, never avenge yourselves, but leave it to the wrath of god, for it is written: "Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord."'

I've always believed in you, too. Ever since I started writing you, I knew you would help me become. 

When this is over, we'll be free. I'll be able to touch you without hesitation. You won't be haunted by your Ripper. I don't know if my hunt will stop. A predecessor of ours once said, 'I was born with the devil in me. I could not help the fact that I was a murderer, no more than the poet can help the inspiration to sing,' - and although I classify myself as someone a little bit more pure than a devil, there is a truth in that.

Can I ask you something? I often see you perusing the Bible that you asked for from the hospital, looking for something to write to me. When I'm on my shift tonight, can you read to me, Will? Just pretend to quietly whisper it to yourself, but I'll be listening. It can be anything book, any verse - from Isaiah that we've both recited to each other; from what my mother used to call my book, the Gospel of Matthew; from Genesis, in the beginning. Anything to make the night a little less empty.

There will never be 'a last time.'

Yours, 

Matthew

_There are no Bible readings that night. Instead Matthew finds Will sleeping fitfully, fingers twitching, lost in a nightmare. He sighs. Watches Will with narrowed, worried eyes._

* * *

Hannibal Lecter finds a bouquet of flowers on his doorstep the next morning. He instantly recognizes the scent as lavender, a flower that his aunt once told him stood for loyalty, faithfulness. 

There is an accompanying typed message on a scrap of paper that reads, "For he is God's servant for good. But if you do wrong, be afraid, for he does not bear the sword in vain. For he is the servant of God, an avenger who carries out God's wrath on the wrongdoer."

Spots of blood adorn the paper.

Lab tests confirm them to be DNA from Michaela and Lawrence Bell, recently gunned down by the Baltimore Vigilante.

It seems as if Matthew couldn't wait, after all.

* * *

Will’s expression is closed like a lifer as he looks at the images before him. Waiting expectantly, Jack’s tested patience is palpable through the clear windows of the privacy room, but Will is so shuttered that he doesn’t even flinch when Jack brings his palm down hard against the table in response.

He answers him, haltingly, fingers wrapped around the chains that have held him to the table for the entire day. It is the first of several days in which he is under such scrutiny - woken early and returned late - and the first of several days in which he spends every waking moment swallowing down the tension that still gathers in the set of his jaw. The only words Matthew can hear from these interrogations are when Jack leaves for the last time, and Will calls after him through the open door, “What’s the simplest explanation here, Jack? That there’s a reason for it - the same reason as all the others. Did you even consider that?”

“No, because it’s bullshit, Will. If you hadn’t said these things about Hannibal -”

“Her writing isn’t my responsibility,” Will responds sharply, and the door slides closed.

And he waits. And he waits. Hours more pass and Hannibal pauses just outside the door, waiting for the orderly to open it. Tilting his head as though to hear a far-away sound, Hannibal turns a pale ghost of a smile towards Matthew before entering the room.

Whether he can’t or won’t, Will doesn’t look at him, leans back in his chair as though to put as much distance as possible between them. A faint curve of lips in something like a smile as Will speaks, watching the horizon of the table where Hannibal sits as though observing an approaching storm. Will is his Cassandra, and there is no guilt in his expression as he prophesies destruction.

* * *

_Smuggled away from him in his next change of clothes, Matthew finds the Bible that Will had requested. There is no note inside it. Several days later, his letter is rumpled in his napkin from breakfast, dropped unceremoniously back onto the tray that never leaves the slot where it was laid._

Matt,

Do you know that lavender oil lasts for days on human skin?

Do you know that his sense of smell is so profound that he can smell disease inside a person, before they even know they’re ill?

It was him that first called you my admirer, who told me to take advantage of what you did to the bailiff. Do you think he hasn’t connected this? He knows now that you’re on his trail and he knows who you’re doing it for and he’s looking for you. If he hasn’t already found you.

The Vigilante must read Lounds’ writing, I told them, and he’s targeting the killers she reports on. Since she reported on my trial, that’s how the killer knows. I told Jack what I could when he brought me the pictures but he knows I’m holding back. He’ll assume the rest is all buried in bitterness. He’s not wrong. But they may not bring me any more pictures after this.

I wagered my innocence on you. I made myself guilty so that I could help you. I built a place for you inside my head and I let you in and I let the seams of your mind stitch together with mine and I trusted you. I trusted that you would listen to me.

I was going to tell you to destroy my letters (I know you’ve kept them) but I wonder if it matters. All of this will merely confirm what they already think.

I was going to ask why you would do this after asking for my help (at risk of ever leaving this place alive) but I know why. Organized. Disorganized. There’s nothing new in the world, just the same old patterns. Something in me moved in you and you reacted. With emotion. With love maybe. With empathy.

I guess I traded part of me in exchange for part of you.

The only way this ends without both of us dead is if you get to him first. The devil’s at your doorstep now.

No more mistakes.

Will

* * *

_Matthew forces skin contact - while handcufffing Will, he pries the folded paper into Will's fist. Will's hand shakes, minutely, but he closes his fingers around it. Accepts it._

My Will,

I thought it would be worth it. He believes he's free and safe, and even for a second, I wanted to dispel those thoughts with every sprig of lavender. I need to hurt him for you.

Look at me, Will. I don't know if I damned the both of us, but you're not looking at me and it's for you.

I'm not betraying you - trust me. I'm going to crucify him, I don't know why, but I'd like to depart from my M.O., and let him hang.

Look at me. I burned your letters and it didn't help. You won't get implicated if I can help it, but I'm ready to go down fighting if I have to, with him or the FBI. Let me be your weapon. Let me go down fighting.

Yours,

Matthew

N.B. You've given me only a part of you, Will? I think you have all of me. I used to think it was only a part, too, but it's more than that.

N.B.2. You didn't sign your letter 'yours.'

* * *

Matthew runs a finger on the Bible's cover, imagining Will reading the crispy yellow pages. When he idly flips through the book, he notices that there's missing sections - Matthew and Isaiah. Ripped out and left bare, leaving torn remnants behind.

He huffs out the sound of a shuddering laugh. His back is digging against the faded white hospital wall. He passes a hand across his face, blocks out the light, and tells himself that he is not human, that he's not crying and useless and weak, stupid lisping unobtrusive Matthew, the crazy orderly attending the crazies.

 _There's nothing new in the world_ , Will had written.

He is Will's weapon, he reminds himself. Even if Will doesn't understand that it's up to Matthew to act; even if Will is so engrossed with his light that he doesn't get how much he needs to hurt people.

It's all Matthew has ever wanted: to be a weapon. To take advantage of what you did, Will had also written. He needs to direct the fucking hunger somewhere and with purpose, to have an angel's name as his psalm and prayer.

He still wishes that Will would read to him.

* * *

Matthew takes the tranquilizer from the hospital supplies. Gets wooden boards that he can nail into a cross, a bucket, and rope. In almost an afterthought, he buys swimming goggles, too. He knows Hannibal Lecter's routine, and makes sure that everything is set in place. He thinks of Lecter's smirk, a twitch of his mouth when he saw Matthew, and feels the anger stirring inside him.

_You're next._

He buys a new Bible for Will, but he doesn't give it to him. Instead he finds himself looking through Isaiah and Matthew, wondering what Will had done with the pages of the old Bible.

Threw them out, probably.

* * *

“Because of your little faith,” Will whispers into the darkness. “I say to you if you have faith like a mustard seed, you will say to this mountain - move from here to there and it will move, and nothing will be impossible to you.” His voice is a quiet susurrus in the empty cell block, like the wind calling through reeds as he holds the pages of Matthew in his hands.

He reads solemnly, remembers the way Matthew pressed the paper into his palm, desperation in his grasp. Regret tightens like straps across his chest. He should have reached for him, reassured him before he pulled away, back into his shadows, that he might know that whatever missteps have occurred on their path, the path is theirs, and on it they are inextricably bound.

_You have all of me._

He runs a hand along his cheek in memory and imagines for a moment it’s Matthew’s touch instead of his own. Knees drawn to his chest he speaks softly over torn pages, against the bitter night and cold stone walls that surround them both. He will trust and not be afraid. Matthew is strength and song. Salvation.

“Because narrow is the gate,” Will breathes, “and constricted is the way that leads to life, and few are those who find it.”

He doesn’t know if he will come - doesn’t blame him if he doesn’t after the rebuke, his admonitions still hot like coals - but the words fall from his lips as a prayer not for retribution but for forgiveness. He doubted. He doubts. He is weak and he is broken and he is cornered, lashing out at the only one who would reach out for him. Here is one so ready and willing to move the world for him, to drag him out of the inferno with blood and fire, in exchange for nothing more than he, himself, as he is.

_I need to hurt him for you._

And by his wounds will they be healed.

* * *

Matthew has his head against the bars when he hears Will murmuring, reciting. Will’s voice is momentous, like gravity, like judgment, and Matthew feels like he’s being pulled inward. He’s been waiting for Will to speak - there’s a reason why they’re in an empty cell block, microphones and cameras disabled - but he didn’t think it would be like this.

“You kept the pages,” he says to the darkness, and he reaches, and somehow their fingers find each other, tangle together.

“Sorry,” Matthew says, finally, to Will, his Will in the darkness. The apology has been on the tip of his tongue. Sorry for alerting your devil. Sorry for making you afraid. Sorry for the blood that’s been accumulating on your hands, our hands. “I’m going after him tomorrow. It’s going to be over soon.”

It’s going to be over when the rope gives, with the cross at the devil’s back, with blood drip-dripping at his feet. There are stuttering lists and plans at the back of Matthew’s head. His methods have always been a strange mixture of impulse and forethought, passion and meticulousness. He’s caught in a cycle of wanting to inflict pain and wanting comfort. He wants Will to read to him right now and he also wants to put Hannibal Lecter’s neck in the noose.

I was ready to respond to those who asked me not, to be found by those who sought me not. I said: Here I am! Here I am!

* * *

 

"Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness," he reads, "for they will be filled." And he leaves the gospel of his Matthew strewn across the bed to come to him.

When their hands finally clasp, free of cuffs and bindings and passing through the bars that would seek to separate them, Will draws Matthew's palm to his lips again, as before, the hand that will bring the devil himself low and cast him down.

Darkness shrouds them and Matthew can feel the warmth of his blush beneath his fingers. He feels the tension in Matthew’s touch, the clamor of thoughts and anxieties building in such a cacophony as to be deafening, all seeking the only release that would satisfy them both. His own heart starts to race, breath coming just a little shorter in sympathy, and he forces himself to speak calmly, softly, soothing with absolute conviction.

"Don't apologize," Will tells him. "Not now. You've done so much and there's so much yet to do. This is just the end of the beginning."

He leans into the bars, his body pressed against them, fingers wrapped tight through Matthew's as he pulls him nearer too. "Everyone will know you after this," he whispers in assurance, their foreheads pressed together between the bars. "They won't know your name, but they'll know your actions. What you've done. What you've accomplished. And when he's gone," he nearly chokes on the words, catching himself with a quick smile, “then this book will end, and we’ll start another."

I am sending you out as a sheep among wolves rings a hollow verse inside of him and he quiets it, his voice a rough and ardent whisper. "I'll be with you, Matt. You have me," he insists. "Yours.”

* * *

Matthew falls forward, his forehead touching Will’s. The metal feels cold and hard on his face, but he doesn’t mind. This is a blessing and a covenant; this is his promise coming to a fulfillment, glory and freedom and justice. He smiles against the bars, and then moves his hands to Will’s hair. Pulls him by his tousled curls and kisses him slowly, and it feels no different when Will had his mouth on Matthew’s palm, still gentle, still warm.

He’s still holding onto Will’s hair when they part.

“I know you’ll be with me. You’ve always been, whenever I’ve hunted and prayed and planned,” he says. “Wish me luck.”

Will’s lips part sweetly surprised as Matthew draws back, and it feels like something breaking inside him, with a little pain and spilling warmth. He shakes his head. "You don't need it," Will assures him, softly adamant, before grabbing the bars and leaning in to kiss him again, their mouths sliding eagerly together past the cold iron that presses into his cheeks. A quick smile pressed against Matthew’s lips before they part - just for him. No sadness. Only faith.

Matthew echoes back, “Yours,” with a twisted smile on his face, and promises Will Lecter’s blood soon. Another letter, another message stained with red, just like before. He wonders where they’ll go, after - to Will’s house with the dogs, maybe, with the sea of grass.

He had told Will that there would be no more ‘last time’, but there will be, he thinks. Maybe he can stop. Maybe he can dream with Will’s hands around his, light and darkness and water and fire, whatever elements that they consist of, and it’s done, your will be done, it’s over.

* * *

For the first time since his father demanded he say grace over dinner, Will Graham is praying.

He doesn’t know what else to call it, the sudden supplications that fall pleading through his thoughts and past his lips.

Please be safe. Please be careful. Please come back.

Please kill Hannibal.

He doesn’t expect him the next morning - he knows it’s his day off, knows he would need to take a day off even if it wasn’t. So he paces, braced and ready as though waiting for the starting gun, and he jumps out of his skin each time the door to the cell block bangs open, scarcely able to stop himself from rushing to the bars to look for him.

And sometimes he goes motionless and still on his bed, trying to will himself there, with Matthew, casting down the devil, but even lost somewhere deep inside his own imagination he doesn’t find peace. He doesn’t rest from the moment Matthew leaves him in the cell alone and a cold ache freezes over all the warmth that had filled him in those last moments together. But it’s temporary, he tells himself - just like when the rivers freeze over in the winter only to crack and warm and move free once spring arrives.

He just has to wait for it.

* * *

My Matthew,

I can’t think of anything else to do right now but to write to you. One last letter from this place, before we’re both so free that we can barely recall what it felt like to be held by cages and cells and justice that’s so far from it that you - we - had to correct it ourselves.

I can’t sit still. It’s taken me so long to even write this much. I want to let the scream building up beneath my tongue rip free until you’re here again. I have no doubt now. Fear, anxiety, worry, yes, but no doubt. You will say to this mountain move and this mountain will move. And I hope it moves quickly, Matt, I hope it moves safely because I’m waiting for you and I need you to come back to me.

I still don’t know how you’ll get me out but I don’t care. We can go anywhere, Matthew, anywhere we want. Maybe we’ll go camping. I think you might like it. Every time I close my eyes I see us together on the outskirts of the woods, together even apart, and I come back from the river with fish for us and you’ve stoked a beautiful fire that dances and crackles and we cook and we eat and we drink together and we kiss until we can’t anymore. Your skin all warm from the whiskey and your hands in my hair again, you’ll pull me close against you and we’ll sleep there by the fire. No more walls. No more barriers.

Soon this letter will seem so funny. You’ll read it and you’ll look at me in that way you do, from the corner of your eyes when you pretend you’re not really looking at me even though we both know you are, and you’ll try not to smile when you tell me I shouldn’t have ever doubted you, not once. Of course, you’ll be right. You’re always right.

Matthew Matt Mine

We’ll be so far gone when you read this. I’ll hand this letter to you myself and lay my head in your lap - sit myself at your feet like I am now - right now, as you’re reading this. You’re reading this and we’re someplace safe and you’re going to lay your hand on my head now - right now - and I’ll know and you’ll know too and all of this will feel like so long ago

I love you

(it seems so fitting to tell you in a letter)

Yours

Will

* * *

Matthew slips into the cool water easily, stroking fast, faster, tasting the chlorine on his lips. He thinks of the lifeguard: holding her down until she was unconscious, holding her down until she lost all her breath. He is chasing a shark in the water - and he surpasses him.

He wins.

He stands at the end of the pool and puts the tranquilizer into Hannibal Lecter. Lecter sinks like a stone - the pool is so wonderfully deep - but drowning is such an undignified, understated way to die. Matthew dives down to draw the devil into his arms, hauling him to the surface.

He sets his design into motion. He likes how Lecter's blood runs, like the source of a stream, snowmelt from a mountain, and the rope fits around his neck as if it was made for him. Matthew can smell the chlorine and the blood; he smiles at the knife in his hands.

Lecter awakens with his dirty bare feet teetering on the bucket. Judas' feet were washed by Jesus, but there is no such luxury here for Hannibal Lecter.

"Good evening," Matthew says. "Do you recognize me, Doctor? What did you think of the flowers?"

"Lavender," Lecter says. His voice is hoarse, straining with effort, to Matthew's delight. "You are the Baltimore Vigilante. Will Graham's admirer. The orderly."

"Yes," Matthew says, circling the cross. He steps across the blood on the floor, as if he's wading in it, and shows Lecter the flash of the knife he used. "And you're the Chesapeake Ripper. You can let yourself hang or you can bleed out until you black out, and the rope will get you anyway." He shrugs. "It's all about giving Judas a little push before he's lost in his Field of Blood."

Lecter's knees are trembling. "You've been listening to Will Graham."

"Not just listening," Matthew says. He cocks his head to the side, clicks his tongue in a scolding noise. "Oh doctor, doctor. You've been trying to shove him into the darkness, but you don't understand that he's not yours to keep and to use. He has his empathy and light and shadow, and it's beautiful in how it is, how it takes shape. I want to watch him, while you just play. And I thought somebody like you would know better than to play with your food." Will had told him about the cannibalism - crude, Matthew thinks, but it makes sense. Wealthy as shit Hannibal Lecter serving up dish after dish of delicacies, privately smirking as guests take a bite. 

"He is not a killer," Lecter says. "Don't--"

"He is one of us," Matthew disagrees. "He knew about my kills, y'know. He hid me. Appreciated them. But it was indirect. Now, this," he gestures at Lecter, "this is more direct. This is a favor."

The surprise that hits Lecter's face nearly makes Matthew laugh. "He sent you."

"Oh yes," Matthew acknowledges. "Are you familiar with Isaiah, Doctor? God's servant said to Him: here I am. Send me."

He continues softly, staring at the uneasy balance of Lecter's feet, "You are weak. You think so highly of yourself, but you're not special. When I was fourteen, there was a killer in this same city, this same state, who liked to pass off flesh as food. He was caught. Just like you'll be caught, in death and after death..."

The doors swing open. 

_It's the sound of fate, Will, when the bolt slides home._

The FBI agent's bullet brings him to his knees. He struggles to tip Lecter over - I'm sorry, Will, I'm sorry - but he fails.

His vision is fading and he's on the ground like a bird with broken wings. He thinks of the new Bible he didn't give Will; the way a fire looks when it's extinguished; the look on his mother's face when she prayed in the candlelight; the way that Andy Sykes grinned when he enthusiastically talked about court cases; the first time he got into a swimming pool; how it felt like to watch someone die because you killed them, you planned it. Matthew Brown is not human, but he feels whatever pieces remain in him pierce his ribs with something like pain. Will's mouth on his palm. Will's mouth on his. 

Matthew isn't sure he knows exactly where the bullet is, but he blesses the wound with his blood, whispers Will's name.

* * *

When they tell him, although they cannot see it, it is an event horizon.

Everything that’s been broken and rebuilt and created and destroyed inside Will rips outward all at once, convulsively - a star’s last explosion before it falls beneath its own gravity and becomes something else entirely. His destruction is a fearful thing and he rages and he howls in abject, motionless silence against whatever God would let Hannibal Lecter still live and Matthew fall.

To them, Will gives nothing more than a pale smile that fades as gently as it appears when they tell him what they saw when they arrived after receiving Hannibal’s suspicions nearly too late, or rather, just a little too early.

His reckoner has a poet’s heart, and he closes his eyes as they speak to watch the servant at work.

It’s as though he’s being read the day’s weather as they hurl condemnations, one after the next, in disbelief and horror that Will withheld these insights. They are hurt by his actions, and he knows this, and he delights in it. The thought very nearly makes him laugh, but he restricts even that from them. He offers only the same flat denials that they’ve never believed. Unmoving, unmoved, he contains every stirring of emotion they would hope to see in him.

There is no place here for fragile Bible pages or hand-written letters, for secret smiles or the hidden pressing of palms, and as Will feels the light collapse within him, he finds comfort only in knowing that his own darkness will consume it.

* * *

They will cast him into the pit again. 

Matthew Brown wakes up, handcuffed to a hospital bed, with monitors beeping around him, and wonders if Will is going to write him when he's in prison.

Some avenging angel he is.

He wants to yell. He wants to set something on fire. He wants to kill Hannibal Lecter. He wants to kiss Will Graham one more time, at least one more time.

Instead he thinks, quietly, _Here I am now._

* * *

Will wants to make promises, assure Matthew that he’s coming - that even if he can’t free Matthew now that he’ll wait for him and together they’ll continue what was begun. A dozen letters are started and stopped before Will just destroys them all and his hands shake as he holds the confession he wrote on the night Matthew was pierced for his own transgressions and then he destroys that one too.

_But they who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings like eagles; they shall run and not be weary; they shall walk and not faint._

Will unfurls himself to those who would call themselves his friends over the following weeks - lets them think him penitent and confused and soft. He smiles when he’s supposed to smile and he’s gentle when he’s supposed to be gentle and they are unaware of the righteousness he wears against his chest, to shield himself from any doubt or hesitation that might steer him from his path. He moves in darkness now, and he finds it a comfort.

He’s playing with a fire far more sinister than the welcoming warmth Matthew offered and he doesn’t know if he’ll survive the immolation.

It’s unfair to promise more than he knows he can give.

It’s unfair not to promise the world to the one who tried to move mountains for him.

Choices, choices.

He still sees Matthew, late at night when he closes his eyes and the world is still. He sees him stoke his fire at the edge of the woods, waiting for Will to return, keeping at bay the dark things that lurk within.

 _Here I am!_  Matthew calls out and their fingers tangle and their bodies join without bars between them but when their lips touch Matthew’s mouth is cold like iron. Will wakes uneasy, and rather than let himself sleep again on those nights he lies awake and wonders if Matthew is thinking of him, too.

_At night my soul longs for you - my spirit within me seeks you diligently._

The note arrives pressed to the bottom of Matthew’s dinner tray, held nervously in place by the orderly who has replaced him, a kind-hearted man named Barney who’s always so willing to help his friends in the FBI.

In velveteen black ink from a fine-nibbed pen, it reads:

_Do not fear_

_for I am with you._


End file.
